MacGregor's Bride

by Barbara Dan

  "That is . . . quite a bold invitation." Smiling, Bruce sank down beside her, knowing just how blessed he was to have a woman whose desires matched his own. He reached over and pulled the apple green ribbon that held her gown closed over her breasts.

  "You haven't had any wine or cheese yet," Lydia mentioned in a soft, seductive voice.

  "You distract me, woman. I want to look at you." In seconds, he had divested her of the sheer garment in which she'd been flaunting herself.

  As he tossed it aside, a tiny frisson of fear made her draw back. She wet her lips nervously. "Please don't tease me about my stomach, Bruce, although I must admit, I am proud of it—almost vain at times."

  Bruce raised his eyebrows in surprise. "Proud? Why so, my little mouse?"

  "Because I'm carrying your baby." She blushed. "Though sometimes I wish it was flat again."

  "All in good time, my love." Bruce contemplated her round belly with uncommon tenderness, humbled by the high compliment she paid him by carrying his child. He smiled, watching her lashes flutter in pretty confusion beneath his gaze. "That wee bellyful won't keep you from enjoying a bit of mischief, eh, lass?"

  "I can't resist you," she had to admit, smoothing his side whiskers.

  "All the same, we'll be mindful of the wee bairn." Ducking his head, he smothered her breasts and belly with kisses.

  They frolicked and pitched about on their couch of love in a rocking motion as erratic as any ship that ever sailed the seven seas. They broke apart and lunged toward each other, as playful as otters one minute, as graceful as two porpoises the next.

  Finally, in a happy tangle of legs and rumpled quilts, they came up for air. They bumped heads lightly and burst out laughing.

  "Ahoy there, matey!" Bruce grinned, helping rescue her from their lumpy love nest.

  "Ahoy yourself!" Lydia laughed. She rolled over and peered under a pillow, her rump temptingly displayed.

  "Looking for something, love?" he asked.

  "My dignity, what else?" And she burst into giggles.

  "Lost. Irretrievably," Bruce informed her with a hearty laugh. "But wait." He pulled her to her feet beside the capsized pile of mattresses. "Let me tidy up a bit."

  "I can do that, Bruce." She bent to help.

  "Don't strain yourself, love. Save your strength for later."

  Whistling a seaman's jig-time tune, he restacked the mattresses, straightened the quilts, and fluffed the pillows. Ready to jump in at the first sign of trouble, Lydia watched him perform his housekeeping duties, the maroon robe flapping around his long hair legs. With order finally restored, he picked her up and settled them again on the bed.

  "I want you, Lydia," he kissed her swollen lips, "and I want to give you pleasure—" another kiss, "—every time. Even when the time draws closer to the baby's arrival."

  "Will it still be safe?" She returned his kisses with several of her own.

  "A happy mother guarantees a happy baby," he assured her with a broad grin. "May I show you?"

  "I'm all ears," said his eager pupil. She folded her hands over her belly and settled back to listen.

  Bruce laughed. "'Twas no lecture I have in mind, lass, but a demonstration." The gleam in his eye suggested an edifying experience, better than anything learned in an ordinary classroom.

  She smiled confidently up at him. "I'm all yours, professor."

  He took her primly laced fingers and separated them, planting a warm kiss in the palm of each hand. "Comfortable?" he asked. She nodded and he began to ply her with kisses, nipping and coaxing her sweetly pouted lips apart. His tongue thrust in pulsing rhythm against hers, slow and deep, until her responses left no doubt that she was ready.

  Mesmerized, Lydia watched Bruce's large expressive hands playing her like a master cellist, coaxing the most exquisite music from her soul. Her heart was racing like a wicked arpeggio, as she approached that magic moment when the world stood still. She was close, so close! A crescendo of pleasure rippled through her like a spring flood, spilling over, bursting . . .

  Gasping, Lydia reached for him.

  "No, love, let me," he whispered huskily. Suddenly his hands were like quicksilver, fanning the flames, fondling her breasts, pushing her into a shattering climax. Higher and higher she soared, nearly swooning with ecstasy. She felt transported, her body an instrument entirely yielded to his masterful touch and the melody his body played upon hers.

  As the magic continued to build, Bruce dropped between her thighs. "Open to me, love," he commanded, his voice thick with desire. At his touch, her pale thighs fell limp, giving him mute permission. Flickering candlelight shone upon the faint gleam of passion surrounded by a crown of golden curls. He breathed in the rousing fragrance of sweetly yielding woman's flesh, dewy with desire. He found it more tempting than sweet nectar dripping from a honeycomb.

  Grasping her breasts, he lightly plucked the cockled buds. A tiny purr of excitement caught in her throat, and he swooped to claim her deepest womanly secrets. As ecstasy raced through her, Lydia gave herself over to the rhapsody of erotic love. Bruce rose above her, using his stout baton like some demon maestro intent upon drawing forth every last note of music before she died of sheer happiness. His amazing serenade rose to a breathtaking crescendo of towering splendor, a haunting and intensely beautiful refrain.

  Her face flushed and shining with surprise, Lydia gazed up at him in awe. "Oh, Bruce, that quite took my breath away," she gasped.

  "Let that be a lesson to you, woman," he warned, lightly kissing the tip of her nose. Reaching over her, he found the loving cup and poured himself a glass of wine. Taking a mouthful, he swished it around vigorously and swallowed, uttering a dramatic sigh.

  "I thought it was intended as a lesson, Bruce." Their eyes met, and her face lit up with a saucy smile. "A most enlightening time it was, too."

  "'Tis the robe you made for me, lass. The color brings out the very divil in me." Taking another mouthful of wine, Bruce gargled his way through a Portuguese ditty, reducing his luscious wife to spasms of uncontrollable laughter.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Awakened by the sun's impatient rays, Bruce and Lydia blinked at each other. Her last awareness had been of Bruce's thumb stroking inside her, coaxing her into slumber.

  "Morning." Still groggy, Lydia crawled out of the lumpy mattresses and made her way behind the folding screen at the far end of their lovenest. Returning, she found Bruce, hands folded behind his head, staring admiringly at her nude body.

  "Every time I see that Chinese screen, I am reminded of the beautiful woman standing behind it so bravely, plighting her troth to me."

  Lydia blushed. "I, too, cherish it for sentimental reasons." She strutted before him with a smile, her breasts bouncing saucily, and bent to tidy up a bit. It pleased her to see his eyes follow her, full of desire. Intuitively she knew something truly remarkable had taken place last night, even more profound than the rapturous union of two bodies. They had become true friends and lovers.

  Bruce watched Lydia flirt and flaunt herself as long as he could stand it. He tossed a small pillow at her. She squealed, ducked, and, by damn! It sailed over the balcony.

  Laughing, they went to see where it landed and then stood marveling that they felt so comfortable together, as they stood gazing down from the stone balcony, taking in the view for miles around. The Ramillies had shifted toward Fisher's Island, and the other British ships were sailing in a leisurely course a couple of miles outside the Thames. In all, five ships lay in wait, ready to intercept any American vessel that made for the open sea.

  Bruce pointed out various ships he had eluded on his way into port. "Hardy expects trouble," he chuckled.

  "Mrs. Harris says the British admiral sent a truce ship into New London a few days ago. Now he's threatening to sink any ship that tries to sail into the Sound." Lydia glanced up, worried about Bruce's plans.

  "That's because the owners of the Eagle took it upon themselves to arm the ship with explosives," Bruce e
xplained. "When Hardy's men overtook and boarded, she blew up, killing several and wounding even more."

  "Oh, Bruce,” Lydia cried. “How can you even think of sailing right now? The British are just waiting to wreak revenge on the next American ship that defies their blockade."

  "Calm your fears, love. I'm no reckless radical, unlike yourself." He laughed, planting a kiss in her hair when she turned to protest his teasing. "I'm more than willing to wait until the British relax their guard."

  Not wishing to appear too elated, Lydia snuggled closer. "Then you're not leaving today?"

  "I may not leave for days, maybe even weeks." He chucked her under the chin. "'Tis glad I am for an excuse to spend more time with my beautiful wife."

  Her heart singing, Lydia strolled along the balcony, her arms around his waist, while Bruce continued to survey the Point. He felt so solid and protective, like the stone fortress he had designed and built.

  From below drifted the sounds of a busy household. Out in the fields and orchards, their collie Brun, waving his big plume of a tail, followed Isaac York, as he hoed a row of fat cabbages. Despite the sobering presence of the British in the harbor, it was a tranquil scene.

  "I never realized what a fine view of the harbor we have," Bruce's voice rumbled against her ear. "'Tis the perfect place for keepin' an eye on the British."

  "Yes, I suppose so," Lydia agreed without much interest.

  "I doubt anyone else has a better lookout." He set her gently aside and leaned forward, peering out to sea.

  Sighing, Lydia fished her spyglass from a stone niche and handed it to him. "Here, Bruce. Will this help?"

  He made a minute inspection of three British barges, a battleship, two frigates and a cruiser. Fully rigged, their jibs and gallants unfurled, they sailed in an unhurried pattern, as if undergoing a routine drill. Offshore a cannon boomed, and then another.

  Bruce chuckled. "Admiral Hardy's throwing his weight around, lettin' us know he's mad as hell about the Eagle." He swung his glass on his nearest Connecticut neighbors, the Rogers, swept over to see what the Quaker farmer next door was growing, and then trained on his own fields.

  "Someone has a green thumb," he commented, not realizing where he was looking. "Most farms don't have enough men to plant so many crops. I wonder who that land belongs to?"

  "A man named MacGregor," Lydia informed him, amused by his absorption. He was like a man with a new hobby, spying on everything in sight.

  A long pause followed, before Bruce lowered the spyglass. "You rented the fields out?"

  She shook her head. "Isaac York came to me one day last April, needing a clean bed and a meal, so I hired him. He has accomplished a great deal, would you not agree?"

  Bruce looked poleaxed by her news. "You're enterprising, all right. Your penchant for roundin' up strays never ceases to amaze me."

  "You perhaps refer to Brun and Tabitha?" she said with a twinkle of humor in her eye.

  "No, madam, I'm talking about that motley crew of men an' women downstairs. Or wasn't I supposed to notice?"

  Lydia nibbled on her lip. "Oh, that. Truly, Bruce, I fully intended to tell you about my project to help our fighting men."

  "When, madam? I'd appreciate knowin' how you manage to feed close to forty people every day." He thrust his hands into the pockets of his handsome robe. His face was a study, rather like a weather map charting the approach of a storm. "I suppose I have Mr. York to thank for that?"

  "Yes, as a matter of fact, and the ladies' auxiliary, as well," Lydia told him defensively. "And, lest you be tempted to forget, those people downstairs are our friends!"

  "I'm all for patriotism," Bruce's hot gaze scoured every inch of her vulnerable flesh in broad daylight, "but I'll be damned if I want my home turned into a country inn for my wife to run. In case you've forgotten, wife, you're expecting a baby."

  Startled by his vehemence, she lifted her chin defiantly. 'You don't hear me complaining!"

  "Even you have limits," Bruce reminded her. "Or did you think you'd just have our baby, take a wee short nap, and then go back to making soup, washing laundry, and whatever else you do for your prize boarders?"

  "No, I—" Lydia stared at him in amazement. She really ought to warn him: Behaving like a domineering, overly protective husband made the veins in his forehead pop out! It might lead to apoplexy or something. "Bruce, dear, do be reasonable," she coaxed. "I barely lift a finger around here. My helpers do practically everything."

  "Lydia, you're in way over your head," he told her in a take-charge manner that irked her no end. "We'll find a polite way to boot these fellows out the door. At least those who are reasonably healthy."

  She glared back at him. "Dare I hope you will show more tact than the time you punched my brother and threw him in the Mystic River?"

  Ignoring her attempt to throw him off the subject, Bruce began to pace "Tell me, what's the average stay for these lads you've been—ahem, entertaining?"

  She gulped. "A little over a month. But, Bruce—"

  "A month!" Bruce exploded, making her jump. "Now, I can understand patchin' 'em up and sendin' 'em home in a week or two, but a month?" He stopped in front of her, his brown eyes snapping. "Woman, you're molly-coddling these men!" he roared.

  Lydia waved her hands, trying to shush him. "Bruce, they will hear you!"

  "Har har!" He stuck his nose in her face, almost gloating. "If all your yowls of passion didn't scare the lot of 'em into leavin' in the dead of night!" At her horrified gasp, he went on, that radical gleam in his eye again. "Leave this to me, love. I'll toss those horny rascals out on their ear!"

  She stamped her bare foot. Ouch! "And I thought you'd be pleased that I was helping win the war!"

  "Don't argue, Lydia. Give me a minute, while I figure a way to thin the ranks. Perhaps we can send these fellows home with a smile on their faces." He picked up the pace, hands clasped behind his broad back, his robe flapping wildly against his legs.

  Lydia cocked her head to one side and reconsidered her problem. So Bruce wanted to take charge? Fine! She would let him. Why not? Watching him grapple with this frequent household problem would amuse her no end. She hopped onto the bed, laced her fingers behind her head, and stretched out, catlike, against the soft pillows.

  While her husband strode up and down, bombarding her with questions about the patients and volunteers in residence, Lydia smiled benignly up at him. All through his interrogation, she saw no reason to mention that Cupid had a way of cleaning house rather frequently.

  "Yes, dear," she replied to all his injunctions and gazed up at him with adoring eyes. Such a gorgeous man! She sighed, secretly admiring his legs every time he spun around and strode off in the other direction.

  He paused to consider the voluptuous siren gracing their quilted lovenest. "'Tis a good thing I'll be around for a while," he told her.

  "Yes, dear." Lydia batted her eyelashes at him.

  "Tell you what." He sat down and took her dainty hand in his. "We'll pair off every able-bodied seaman with one of your female volunteers. Then we'll hold a wedding ceremony for a dozen or so couples—"

  "What! All at the same time?" Wild-eyed, Lydia sat bolt upright.

  Of course, Bruce only thought she was impressed by his forthright handling of a sticky problem. "Aye," he nodded decisively, "and the rest we'll send packin' to the prospective bride's parents." He paused, letting the full impact strike home. "What say you to that, my love?"

  Like a meek little grey spider, Lydia's fingers slowly crept up the inside of his velvet sleeve. Her sultry violet-blue eyes lifted to gaze upon him in solemn wonder and made his body feel happy all over.

  "Oh, Bruce, what a brilliant idea!" she cooed, a trifle breathless. She fastened a headlock on him and drew him down to her warm embrace. "I wonder why I never thought of that!"

  * * *

  Peering through her parlor window, Mrs. Abernathy pressed her lips together, as the object of her fiery disapproval pulled up in front of Mrs
. Rafferty's house. Here she came, driving up in an open rig, like some common ragpicker, returning armloads of bedding and cots to the neighborhood. After what had transpired under her roof, Lydia MacGregor should hide her face!

  Nostrils quivering, Mrs. Abernathy turned to the ladies of Linden Street gathered in her parlor. "I see Lydia MacGregor got back from visiting her sister in Westerly."

  "Sister-in-law," corrected Mrs. Slater, adjusting the napkin on her lap. She was a stickler for getting the facts straight.

  "Imagine!" Mrs. Cummins clucked. "Letting her house be overrun by randy sailors and those young volunteers of hers! Such carrying on would never have happened in my day!"

  Pamela Smithe fluffed her curls, freshly coifed in the latest French style. "And that ridiculous story about Halifax—unbelievable, how such rumors get started."

  "Dreadful," Mary Anne Rhees agreed, wondering what Mrs. Abernathy cut her coffee with this week; it tasted soapy.

  "Scandalous!" Millie Orkin put in, coming back to the sofa after a quick stroll past the window. She noticed that Lydia MacGregor wasn't carrying any items herself. Rather, she was supervising two husky young louts who worked at Mr. Harris's warehouse.

  "Do tell!" said Constance Jones. "What happened, that she's returning all those cots?"

  Miss Everhard, a new boarder at Mrs. Rafferty's and a recent addition to the group, cleared her throat importantly. "You mean you haven't heard? Captain MacGregor had Judge Perkins out to his place yesterday afternoon."

  Mrs. Slater confirmed their worse suspicions with a knowing nod. "Fourteen couples said, 'I do,' in a single afternoon."

  "No!" Mary Anne scalded her tongue on a mouthful of tea, took in a big breath of air, and fanned herself rapidly.

  "Indeed, yes. Even that hopeless spinster, LeAnn Morely—no offense, Miss Everhard— landed herself a husband," Mrs. Abernathy said.

  "No! Really?" Pamela's eyes goggled with incredulity.

  "Look what she wound up with: A man five years younger than herself." Mrs. Slater, by her tone, condemned the twenty-eight year old spinster for such folly. "Although I did hear Mr. Essex plans to attend Yale, once the war ends."